


Merry Christmas, Stiles

by Atelophobia_Achluophilia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Bad Poetry, Christmas, Fluff, Gifts, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-01 23:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atelophobia_Achluophilia/pseuds/Atelophobia_Achluophilia
Summary: Stiles has hated Christmas since his mother passed away, now a mysterious intruder keeps leaving him presents, decorations, and bad Christmas poetry covers. Maybe Stiles will be able to enjoy this Christmas after all.Written for the Tumblr Steter Secret Santa, gifted tomsridcully





	Merry Christmas, Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, something other than HP under my belt! I have been meaning to write for this pairing for quite a while but haven't had the time. This exchange was a very good excuse for kicking myself into gear, so thank you to the Tumblr Steter community! I hope I did you proud <3 
> 
> This work has not been beta read, so all mistakes are entirely my own

Stiles hated Christmas. Every year it was the same story down to the crappy tinsel and stupid carols blaring in every shop and house in Beacon Hills. To him, it was not “the most wonderful time of the year”, in fact it was the complete opposite. What Christmas meant to Stiles was a dramatic increase in accidents due to snow and ice, and roadways full of jolly drunk drivers on their way home from parties and family gatherings. Noah was busy working at the police department and he knew Scott would be spending the next two weeks with his mom. As he looked at the box of decorations his father had pulled out of storage, a loud sigh escaped him. His dad had had enough time to partially set up their tree before being called back to the department, and as Stiles surveyed the messy scene in the middle of the living room and the decrepit bunch of plastic pine needles, he felt the familiar pangs of loneliness in his stomach. The buzz of his phone in his pocket made him jump and he fished it out of his jeans.

_Scott: Last pack meeting before the holidays! Derek’s loft @ 6_

Stiles groaned and checked the time. 5:02. He had enough time for a long shower, he’d pick his dad up a salad on the way to Derek’s. Taking one last glance at the decor he would knowingly have to put up later, he made his way up the stairs to the small bathroom he shared with his father. Peeling off his sweat pants and t shirt, Stiles stepped under the spray of scalding water and hoped it would wash away the memories of when Christmas meant something other than Chinese takeout and an empty house.

* * *

The pack meeting had gone entirely as Stiles expected it to. Everyone was cheerfully swapping their holiday plans and someone had even tried decorating the loft with garlands and fairy lights with a real pine tree in the corner, all of which was probably the cause of Derek’s frown being set more ferociously into his face than usual. For once, Stiles felt the same. It had come as surprise however when Peter sauntered down the spiral steps dressed in a cozy seasonal sweater and a broad grin. He looked, in Stiles’ opinion, udderly ridiculous and entirely too cheery. 

“Merry Christmas, everyone!” he said with more excitement than Stiles had thought capable of a Hale. A chorus of “Merry Christmas” rang back at him from the group of teenagers. “I hope everyone likes the decor? I had to fight Der tooth and claw to put it all up, but this place needed to be livened up for the holidays. Christmas is one of the best times of year, after all.” Derek scowled further and Stiles tried not to roll his eyes. With that Scott started the meeting. Stiles tuned out the majority of it, but Scott ended by reminding them that they should be ready for any impromptu meeting in case of emergency.

“After all,” Stiles had mumbled, “there’s no rest for the wicked so why should supernatural beasties decide to give us a break for the holidays?” No one commented, but Stiles’ words seemed to somber the atmosphere.

Sensing his bad mood, Scott gave him a hug before he left. “Take care, Stiles. Text me if you need anything.”

“Sure thing,” he lied, knowing full well he wouldn’t text even if he was dying because he knew how important this time was to Scott and Melissa. Stiles forced a smile to reassure him anyways. He hoped Scott hadn’t noticed his heart skip a beat. Scott gave him a sympathetic look, apparently taking Stiles’ words at face value and walked out the door with Kira. Stiles let out a breath but groaned inwardly when he heard Peter call his name. He made his way over to the wolf who was lounging on the couch, a smirk on his face and legs spread open as if in invitation. In that moment Stiles wanted to kiss that smirk of his damn mouth and slide between those thick thighs. _No, bad Stiles,_ he silently reprimanded himself. _We’ve been over this. Peter Hale is off limits, I repeat, OFF LIMITS!_

“How can I help you?” he said, swallowing thickly around the lump that had formed in his throat. This definitely wasn’t the first time Stiles’ mind had conjured less than innocent thoughts concerning the particular Beta. In fact when he had faced Peter in the lacrosse field, his first thought was of Lydia’s safety. His second thought was how impressively hot the at-the-time Alpha was, right before Peter had bared his teeth and told him to give Derek up and then forcing him into his Jeep.

“There was less cheek from you than usual and your energy isn’t bouncing all over the room,” Peter said,cocking an eyebrow as if he knew exactly what had crossed Stiles’ mind. He’d always been especially good at reading him, regardless of his extra werewolf senses.

Stiles rolled his eyes and played for nonchalance despite the fact that his stomach was currently performing flips worthy of a traveling circus performer. “I could tell you how ugly that sweater you’re wearing is if you want. Give me some of the candy canes and I can fix the energy problem quite quickly.”

“Excuse me, this sweater is classic,” Peter exclaimed, pretending to be offended.

Stiles snorted. “Is the tree made from real tinsel? Because that’s not classic it’s just tacky.”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“I thought I saw you leaving a green trail.”

“I’m spreading Christmas cheer.”

“Right,” Stiles said, “making people sweep their floors definitely spreads cheer.”

“Just doing my part to help keep places tidy,” he replied languidly. Stiles shook his head but grinned. He and Peter bantered easily and Stiles was somehow comforted by the normalcy in the way they interacted with each other. “But what I meant by my comment was that you’re unusually serious this evening. What’s on your mind?”

“Well I have Jingle Bells on loop inside my head, so that’s a thing.”

“I’m worried about you, Stiles.”

It was the sincerity in Peter’s voice that made Stiles’ shoulders slump. Peter patted the seat next to him and Stiles obliged him, pulling his long legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms wound them. They sat quietly for a few minutes, but it wasn’t uncomfortable and Stiles appreciated that Peter didn’t press him or try to make idle conversation. Instead he scooted closer to him, a muscled arm sneaking to rest on the back of the couch, close enough to graze the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles felt the tears that had been building threaten to spill over, so he closed his eyes tightly and tried to focus on the warmth the was emanating off of Peter like a radiator. The bright fairy lights danced behind his eyelids. 

“I hate Christmas,” Stiles eventually whispered, bitterness lacing his words. Peter said nothing, and he took that as a signal to continue. “My mom loved Christmas. It was her favorite time. We’d spend hours decorating the house, stringing popcorn and cranberries for the squirrels and birds outside, hanging up lights. Hell, one year we even made a gingerbread house! We went out every year to pick out a tree, a real tree, not the plastic piece of crap my dad and I use now. The house always smelled like freshly baked cookies and I can still hear my mom’s laughter ringing in the air. But now that she’s gone… it all sucks. My dad works all the time and I don’t want to bug Scott so I sit in that big house alone and it’s so… empty. Hollow. It feels like shit, and I hate it so I hate Christmas.” Stiles finished in a rush. He felt childish now that he had spoken it out loud, but he couldn’t deny that being alone frightened him more than all the creatures the pack had ever faced.

“Stiles,” Peter started sadly. Stiles felt the pity roll off of him and immediately jumped up from the couch before he could finish. Being pitied was not something Stiles enjoyed and he had gotten enough of it to last him a long and miserable lifetime.

“Anyways, thanks for the lovely chat but I’ve got to hit the sack. See you after the new year!” With that he rushed out of the loft, leaving Peter’s sad gaze trailing after him.

Peter sat there for a while, thinking about the smell of pain and loneliness that had replaced Stiles’ usual tightly coiled energy and upbeat aroma. How the others hadn’t noticed was beyond him because as he felt as though he had been choking on it since the minute the lanky teen opened the door. The boys feelings were completely understandable but he seemed embarrassed to display them. Peter understood them all too well, for beneath the anger he had harbored after the fire was a current of anguish that had seemed to drown him. The feeling was still there if he was honest with himself, which Peter rarely was. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for Stiles which had proved a mistake. He had felt the atmosphere change, had seen in Stiles’ eyes that his walls were up once again and he knew there was nothing more he could do in that moment but let him leave. 

* * *

When Stiles stumbled sleepily down the stairs the next morning, his yawn froze on his lips.The smell of evergreen wafted through the room causing Stiles to inhale deeply. There in the corner where the plastic tree usually stood was a real pine. Cautiously, he stepped closer to further inspect it. The tree was just over 6 feet tall, but it was full and the needles were thick enough that Stiles struggled to see the trunk through the brush. He fished his phone out of his pajama pockets.

_Stiles: Nice tree, Dad. What’s the occasion?_

_Noah: What tree?_

_Stiles: Picture_

_Noah: Whoa! Where’d you get that?_

_Stiles: Me? I thought YOU got it_

_Noah: Not a chance. Ask Scott?_

Stiles stared at his phone for a minute, thinking. If his father hadn’t purchased the tree, Scott was the next most-likely candidate. Stiles searched his contact and pressed call. 

“What’s up Stiles?” Scott answered blearily after the third ring. Stiles felt a bit guilty about having obviously woken him up, but immediately launched into his mission.

“Sorry to bug you, but what’s the deal with the conifer shedding its essence in my living room?”

“Huh?”

“The tree, Scott! There’s a tree in my living room!”

Scott mumbled something off speaker before saying, “What are you talking about, dude?”

“Someone put a live tree in my house, Scott, and my dad already said he didn’t do it. Where’s you find this thing anyways? The bottom looks like a hack job.”

“Dude, I did not get you a tree. I slept at Kira’s place so I have an alibi.” Stiles was quiet. “Hello? Stiles?”

“Never mind, thanks,” Stiles said and hung up. He stared at the tree. _What the hell?_

* * *

Stiles confronted his dad after the first few nights, but after it was clear the sheriff wasn’t behind the Christmas decorating, he stopped asking. “I guess someone decided we needed some real holiday cheer,” his father had commented on a night he had managed to make it home for dinner.

“Dad, someone has been breaking in to our house to put all of this junk up in the first place. Aren’t you going to do an investigation and arrest them for trespassing?”

Noah thought for a moment as he chewed the salad Stiles had prepared for him. “I don’t see a problem. They haven’t taken anything.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Stiles, someone is trying to do something nice for us. They are giving their time and energy into making this place look cheery which we both know it’s lacked for quite a while. Try to accept it and be grateful for small gifts.” Stiles sat back in his chair and huffed. “Besides,” Noah continued, “It seems to me they’re doing more good than harm.”

And that Stiles couldn’t, deny but that didn’t stop him from trying to catch who he had officially named the Christmas Invader. After his father had left for the department again, Stiles tried to stay awake. He made it through a pot of coffee, two Red Bulls, and countless episodes of Classic Doctor Who before waking up to the harsh morning sun glaring through the open drapes. A heavy blanket had been placed a on top of him and a note was left on the table under a small box of milk chocolates.

_On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me sweets to satisfy my cravings._

Stiles rolled his eyes. That night he left a note that read, _Resorting to poetry, are we? Also, I’m lactose intolerant._ He woke to a basket of goodies and a note saying _On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me salty snacks instead of sweets._ He rolled his eyes again but this time he couldn’t help but smile.

He locked all the doors and windows that night except for one, under which he scattered his collection of legos. He set up a video camera from across the room and went to bed. When he went downstairs there were no gifts or new decorations, but all of his legos had been built into a domestic scene including a large house with a garden, a few cars, and a cat. His camera sat on the table.

_On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me a laugh, try harder than that to catch me!_

A laugh bubbled out of Stiles’ mouth when he read the note. “A challenge is it? Well consider it accepted!” he said to no one in particular. Still, he felt as though his trespasser knew. That night Stiles set up his old spy gear around the house. He never thought his twelve-year-old toys would come in handy again, but he spent the day placing covert cameras and booby traps to catch the Christmas Invader. He set the alarm and string bells from the doors and windows before drifting off to sleep. They never jingled and Stiles woke to his alarm blaring “Let It Snow”. He crept downstairs to find his cameras on the table again and all of his traps still in place. The alarm had been disabled. When he picked up the folded paper of the note, a refillable Visa slipped out.

_On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me a gift card for Christmas shopping._

Stiles tried to track the barcode on the Visa but failed. He did learn that whoever he was dealing with had money to spare, as the card was loaded with over $100. He decided to spend the day at the Beacon Hills mall doing exactly as the Christmas Intruder suggested. He left with a new tie, cuff links, and cologne for his father, a video game for Scott, an easy recipe cookbook for Melissa, a pocket phone charger for Malia, a Michael Buble cd and flower delivery for Lydia, and several other knick-knacks for the rest of the group. He stumbled upon a gag gift of “Happy Pills” for Derek and when he saw the ugly sweater kit, he had to buy it for Peter. With his backseat loaded with bags he drove to the diner for lunch with Lydia and Malia. He told them about his midnight visitor as we wolfed down his burger.

“And your father isn’t the least bit concerned?” Lydia questioned.

“Nope,” Stiles through a mouth full of food. “They haven’t taken anything so he said it was fine. I think he just likes all the gifts and decor.”

“You have idea who it could be?”

“Well it’s not like they’ve left me much to go on. All I know is this person is pretty good at sneaking around but sucks at poetry.”

Malia laughed. Lydia smiled. “That gives you a little actually. He’s been clever enough to avoid your cameras and traps so that means he’s smart. That rules out the majority of the pack.” Stiles snorted but Lydia continued. “You said they gave you quite a bit of cash so they’ve got enough to spare which narrows it down even more. The attempt at and content of the poetry says they’re playful. Who do we know that fits those parameters?”

“Way too many people,” Malia stated dryly. Turning to Stiles she said, “Can I spend the night? Peter has been annoyingly cheerful and I may be able to assist in catching your poetry guy.”

“That’s actually a great idea, Malia. We’ll both come spend the night with you, Stiles.” Lydia chimed in.

Stiles looked at them both fondly. “A slumber party with my two favorite women? Wow am I a lucky guy! Bring snacks and you’re in.”

* * *

The night progressed with lots of chips, pretzels, and pop. They watched a horror movie of Malia’s choice and then a “chick flick” Lydia had brought, neither of which Stiles minded. He would never tell anyone, but he’d actually cried the first time he watched _The Notebook_ and even though he faced real-life werewolves every day, 1941’s _The Wolf Man_ was a cult classic. When it was his turn to choose they watched _Blade Runner_ , complete with Stiles’ comprehensive commentary. They laughed and talked and by the time Lydia declared she needed her beauty sleep, Stiles didn’t feel so alone. When he crawled under the covers of his dad’s bed (he’d let Lydia take his after he changed the sheets), a warm feeling burned gently in his chest. It felt suspiciously like happiness.

* * *

Malia woke up to the sound of footsteps outside the house, silent to anyone who didn’t have _were_ -hearing. A steady heartbeat drummed in her ears and the slide of the window was deafening. She stayed, unmoving from her prostrate position on the couch. She tried to regulate her breathing so as to not give herself away.

“I know you’re awake, Malia. Don’t try and fool me,” a familiar voice whispered lowly.

She sat up from under the blankets Stiles had lent her and took in the figure of the man crouched beneath the open window. He had a large paper bag beside him. “So it’s you. What the hell are you doing?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Malia nodded. She’d hadn’t been suspicious of him, but now it all seemed to make sense. The presents, the teasing, the challenge. It was all to make Stiles happy. “If you hurt him…”

“I won’t.” The man placed the bag on the table with a slip of paper before slipping through the window and out into the night.

Malia debated waking up Stiles and telling him of the encounter, questioning if she should give the man up. She thought of the way Stiles’ scent had pulsed with excitement as he talked about his visitor. She thought of the way his lips had curled up slightly in an unconscious smile and the twinkle in his amber-brown eyes. She went back to sleep resigned to keep the man’s identity a secret.

* * *

Stiles woke to a written apology from the girls stating that he would have to catch the Christmas Invader on his own. They did hint that it was someone he knew and that he was in no danger, “unless you want to be, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to oblige you in that sense. He’s easily persuaded when it comes to you,” claimed Lydia. Apparently Malia had filled her in on the situation as Stiles snored like a freight train in the bedroom which he thought was rather unfair. He texted as much to Lydia but only got a “sorry sunshine, my lips are sealed” with a lipstick kiss emoji in response, which was admittedly more than he got from Malia who hadn’t responded at all. Stiles set his phone down on the table more forcefully than was strictly necessary. He picked up the note next to the grocery bag and skimmed it.

_On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me groceries for cookie baking_

A scoff escaped his throat. Stiles couldn’t recall the last time he’d baked anything, but he did remember it had ended in disaster. The fire department had been called and when they drove up to the Stilinski home they saw the teen rushing out the front door, black clouds of smoke billowing out behind him, alarms blaring, and a fire extinguisher blowing streams of foamy carbon dioxide. His father had since banned Stiles from using the oven as it seemed he was incapable of making anything more complicated than a tossed salad, but that generally known fact had escaped his midnight friend. The chime of the doorbell stirred him from his musings and Stiles opened the door to find a grumpy Derek Hale holding the scruff of Peter’s knit reindeer sweater.

“He’s being annoying, take care of him,” Derek said, practically throwing the older man inside.

Stiles didn’t have time to react before there was a hard mass of werewolf and wool in his face causing him to stumbled backwards. The door slammed behind him and Peter had just enough time to catch Stiles before he fell to the ground from the unexpected impact. He felt the strong arms wrap around his back, hugging him to a broad chest. Before he could think better of it, Stiles was inhaling the familiar and heady scent of him and winding his own arms around Peter’s slim waist.

“Careful there, Stiles,” he said. Amusement sparkled in his ice-blue eyes when Stiles glanced up to meet them. Stiles felt himself go red to the tips of his ears and he scrambled to get out of the man’s suffocating embrace.

“Why do I get stuck babysitting?” he complained.

Peter pretended to look hurt. “Babysitting? And I thought you liked me!”

_More than I’d care to admit_ , Stiles thought. “I have better things to do than try to keep your old-man ass from causing trouble.”

“My ass may be old but it’s still in perfect shape,” the wolf said haughtily, “and if I wasn’t here to get into mischief you’d die of boredom. Honestly, you should be thanking me instead of insulting me.”

“You’re right - thank you for making my life miserable,” he started.

“Any time, darling,”Peter interrupted.

“- but I’d rather be bored than be seen with you and that sweater. Seriously, how many of those atrocious things do you have?”

“Quite a few, and I’m sure you’d love to get your grimy little hand on them,” Peter purred.

“Only to set fire to them,” scoffed Stiles. He smiled in spite of himself.

Peter looked over his shoulder. “What’s in the goodie bag?” he asked, motioning to the brown paper bag the Christmas Invader had left.

“Baking stuff, apparently,” Stiles shrugged. “Some ass-hat has been sneaking in here to leave me presents and bad Christmas song rewrites.” He presented the note to the wolf.

“Sounds like you have a secret admirer,” he teased after reading it.

“As if!” Stiles rolled his eyes. _No one ‘admires’ me, secretly or not._

“Well, I’m jealous this person has been getting all your attention. I honestly didn’t know you baked in the first place, Stiles.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “I almost burned down the house last time I tried. And… it’s not that fun to do alone.”

Peter regarded him quietly for a moment. “Then I guess we’ll have to fix that, won’t we? After all,” he said, beginning to pick items out of the bag Stiles hadn't even looked into yet, “I happen to be a wonderful cookie maker.” With that, he set to work.

Stiles was surprised by how easy it was to be with the older man. They worked together in the kitchen, Peter moving gracefully about and expertly mixing ingredients while Stiles merely spilled them. He accidently set their KitchenAid mixer too high and splattered flour all over both of them, cursing as Peter chuckled. They managed to pan two-dozen sugar cookies before Stiles had eaten all the batter and set them in the oven. They had a gingerbread decorating contest while they waited for them to bake, teasing each other playfully as they went. Stiles found out Peter was ticklish and mercilessly exploited his weakness, causing them to lose countless candies to the tile floor which was now covered in globs of pre-made icing and various baking powders from earlier mishaps. They wrestled over supplies, several of which Stiles popped in his mouth to keep the wolf from getting them. He tried to run away with the packet of green frosting but slipped. Peter roared with laughter as green globs flew around the kitchen and Stiles landed on his backside. Despite his wounded pride, Stiles decided he enjoyed hearing the wolf’s boisterous laugh. The skin by his eyes crinkled as his mouth opened in a smile and Stiles was struck by how much he was enjoying himself. He had never seen this soft, dare he say domestic side of Peter. He was a little intimidated by the overwhelming urges to do anything to make him smile or laugh.

Peter held out his hand to help him up and Stiles took it, reveling in the warmth of his palm. “Are you alright, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He hadn’t let go of his hand.

Peter smiled gently and moved in closer to him. Stiles had to tilt his head up to meet his piercing eyes and when he did, he was swept away in their icy depth. They seemed to see into his very being and Stiles shuddered, feeling utterly laid bare beneath the gaze. His breath caught. _Please, for the love of a higher power, don’t let him have heard that._ Peter crowded even closer, the thumb of one hand sneaking under Stiles’ chin, lifting his face closer as the other hand rested open on the small of his back. His own hands came up to lay splayed on the man’s chest.

“Stiles,” he breathed, and the sound of his name uttered like a prayer on Peter’s lips made Stiles’ knees weaken. “Your pulse is racing.”

“It’s your fault,” he heard himself whisper hoarsely. He saw Peter’s gaze flick down to his own mouth and unconsciously opened it slightly, inviting. He felt the man’s breath mingle with his own due to the close proximity, the heat of his body warming Stiles through the layers of fabric between them until he felt as if his entire body was burning up. He was so lost in the _touch, smell, sound, feel_ of Peter that he didn’t realize his eyes had closed. The thumb under his chin moved to pull his bottom lip with its calloused pad and he opened his mouth further to accommodate it. The arm around him tightened, lifting him slightly until soft stubble brushed his lips, causing another pleasant shudder to run through Stiles. He felt the soft flesh of Peter’s mouth before his own and a low rumbled shook the chest beneath his hands that were now clutching at fabric. 

The oven alarm sounded, breaking the moment and causing Stiles to jump, eyes blinking open wide. He had a moment to take in the view of the wolf, pupils blown and mouth hanging slightly open, before he came back to his senses and pushed away. Stiles rushed to keep the cookies from burning. He pulled the pans out of the oven, the hot air doing nothing to diminish the redness of his face, and slipped them onto cooling racks. Having nothing further to busy himself with, he turned to Peter who seemed to have collected himself. He was smoothing the wrinkles Stiles had made in his sweater.

He cleared his throat. “I think I’d better be on my way now.”

Stiles wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

The soft hand in his hair startled him but it was gone almost as soon as it had come. The wreath on the door jingled as Peter left.

Stiles tried to distract himself with cleaning up from their cooky making mess, all the while his mind raced. _He was going to kiss me_ , he thought. _I was going to_ **_let_ ** _him kiss me. Not only that, I wanted him too. Stiles, you idiot!_ He couldn’t believe himself. Giving into his long time crush on the older Hale was a dangerous (not to mention extremely stupid) idea that was guaranteed to end with serious consequences. And yet, he couldn’t forget the warmth of the man’s breath on his face and the feel of his strong arm around him. 

There was no visit from the Christmas Invader that night. Stiles, busy overthinking, hardly noticed the absence of gifts the next morning. 

* * *

Stiles was rudely awakened by his father blasting Stevie Wonder’s _What Christmas Means to Me_ on an old school boombox.

“Dad, what the hell?” he yelled, throwing his pillow at the sheriff. “Turn that down!”

“You sound like an old man!” his father shouted back.

“You’re the old man! Act like it!”

His father complied, grinning as he handed Stiles a folded piece of paper. “Found this assortment on the table.”

Stiles unfolded the note to see the now familiar scrawl.

_On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me a cd of Christmas cheer_.

His father played the damn thing on repeat until he got a call and had to hurry back to the department, leaving Stiles both relieved and disappointed.

* * *

When he found breakfast ready-made and still steaming the next morning with the accompanying “ _On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me a breakfast fit for a king_ ”, Stiles almost flipped the table. He threw the note instead and watched with disgust as it fluttered gracefully to the floor at his feet. He stomped on it and decided to enjoy the free meal his CI had provided, cleaning his plate completely of the fluffiest waffles he had ever eaten and draining his mug of the most immaculate cup of coffee he’d ever tasted.

* * *

_On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me his true identity._

Stiles was nervous. He texted Malia and Lydia with no response which wasn’t too surprising due to the fact that it was Christmas Eve and they were both with family, but it left him with only his wild imagination as company. He couldn’t even begin to guess as to who had been behind this entire farce and every time he thought he had an insight into their identity he was suddenly stumped again. He wasn’t used to not being able to figure things out and his frustration mounted as the day wore on without any indication of a visitor. He finally got tired of waiting around and ent upstairs, intent on calling the awful holiday short and going to bed, when the doorbell suddenly rang. He ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time and almost breaking his neck as he tripped on the slippery landing. He threw open the door to reveal Peter. He was dressed and a dark blue sweater with gold ribbon making it look like he was a wrapped present and holding a bag of what smelled like Chinese takeout. Stiles’ brain whirred and Peter huffed at him and slid inside, closing the door behind him. He then held out the bag of food and Stiles unthinkingly took the handles, the plastic of the handles digging into his fingers from the weight of the greasy feast.

“What are you doing here?” he finally managed.

“I thought that would be obvious to you,” Peter threw back.

“Are… are you..?” _He couldn’t be…. could he?_

Instead of answering directly, Peter recited the last note Stiles received, “on the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me his true identity.” He smiled softly at him. “It’s me, Stiles.”

Stiles dropped the takeout on the table next to him, unable to think. For the second time in his life it felt like the cogs in his head had stopped, but instead of being followed by despair it was accompanied by a warm feeling in his chest.

“Stiles?”

A laugh bubbled out of his throat and Stiles swore he had never felt happier. Peter looked unsure, something that didn’t suit him. The witty, humorous asshole that was Peter Hale had made way for a sensitive and caring man which Stiles somehow hadn’t anticipated. He wondered how many other sides there were to him that Stiles had never seen.

“You really suck at poetry,” he said. It felt safer than any of the other thoughts flying around his head at the moment.

Peter visibly relaxed. He tried to sound offended as he said, “I’ll have you know those took a very long time to write.” 

“Next time, go with the original. I’m sure my dad would have loved a pear tree and a bunch of birds.”

Peter’s hearty laughter washed over Stiles like a tidal wave and he was reminded just how much he liked hearing it. Feeling a burst of confidence, he stepped closer. He reached out and ran his fingers over the gold ribbon on Peter’s chest. The air seemed to still around them and there was a ringing in Stiles’ ears.

He glanced up and said more shyly than he intended, “I like this one.”

Peter smiled at him and stepped even closer. Stiles could feel his breath on his face. “I have one last gift for you,” he said.

Stiles’ brows furrowed and he cocked his head slightly in question. “Is it the Chinese food?” he asked, causing Peter to chuckle. The sound rumbled out of hist under Stiles’ fingers and he felt his heart quicken at the feeling.

“No. It’s a decoration of sorts.”

“What? Another one?” Stiles gestured with one hand around him. “You’ve turned my house into the fucking North Pole already, how much more is there?”

“Just this,” Peter smiled, pulling a bunch of white berries out of his jean pocket. He dangled them above Stiles’ head and it took him a second to figure out what exactly it was.

“Is that…?”

“Mistletoe,” Peter supplied smugly.

"Where did you even get that? Aren't werewolves like, allergic to it or something?"

"A very human way of putting it, but yes. One has to know where such things are so they can be avoided usually, but I made an exception this time." Peter leaned in towards Stiles so he could speak softly. “Last chance to back out. If you don’t walk away, you’re stuck with this ‘old man ass’ for the rest of Christmas. You’re also going to get one hell of a Christmas kiss. Choose wisely” 

Stiles couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re trying to brag right now. Just shut up and kiss me, old man.”

With that, Peter pressed their lips together and Stiles felt as though the air had been stolen out of his lungs. The kiss was hungry and his knees buckled a little from the barely restrained passion of Peter’s mouth. He hadn't been prepared for the tongue dancing with his own to be so hot and so damn talented. Before he knew it there was a hand cupping his face and another on the small of his back, pulling him to Peter and bending him backwards as the kiss was deepened. Stiles had one hand curled not-so-gently in Peter's hair and the other bunching up the soft fabric of his sweater. When they finally pulled apart, a string of spit trailed from their mouths for a second before snapping as Stiles licked his lips. He could definitely get used to that.

His stomach rumbled. “I think it’s time to dig into that lavish dinner you brought me.”

“I believe it i,” Peter said. He walked towards the table and Stiles was awarded with the view of his pert ass swaying as he went. “Oh, and Stiles,” he called over his shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“Merry Christmas.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't pass up the opportunity to insert my favorite movies. I'm a sucker for classic horror flicks and I love Harrison Ford. I also cried when I was suckered into watching The Notebook but I bet you did too so no judging! I'm thinking about doing a smutty sequel for this so let me know your thoughts! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed and I wish you all a happy holidays! XOXO!


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